


shenanigans

by nobodysusername



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff, M/M, completely aimless oneshot im sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-05
Updated: 2014-07-05
Packaged: 2018-02-07 12:40:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1899390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nobodysusername/pseuds/nobodysusername
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s not like he’s a starving artist just yet. The guy he’s falling for, on the other hand, is exactly that. </p>
<p>Or, Bucky is pining and Clint's not completely useless for once.</p>
            </blockquote>





	shenanigans

**Author's Note:**

> idek what this is but i'm sorry

Alright, so he’s a poet, _sue him_. He survives just fine waiting tables at the restaurant off of Central when he’s not dashing from class to class or furiously trying to start up his dying Ford, so it’s not like he’s a starving artist just yet.

The guy he’s falling for, on the other hand, is exactly that. With the close-cropped blond hair and the cerulean eyes, strong jawline, steady hands—damn, the guy should really be a football player. What’s funny is how far from it he is: the man’s a second year art student, covers canvases with his vast sweeping portraits of long-dead relatives and half-dreamt ethereal beings. The genre probably has a name, like post-post-surreal-modern or some other horse-shit but Bucky couldn’t care less what the official name is because _whatever_ it is, it’s fucking gorgeous.

Not that Bucky pays attention to the artsy crowds in his school; they’re pretentious as hell. (He ignores the voice in the back of his mind pointing out that he has no trouble paying attention to Steve, the aforementioned Adonis-slash-painter.)

So. Bucky’s a poet and he’s majoring in English with some experience in Spanish and some Italian—hey, it came with being in Brooklyn, and it’ll come in handy—so he’s smart enough to know his best bet is staying in school till he can get a Master’s degree in something useful; with luck, he can get a teaching job somewhere safe and suburban, live an adult life watching kids he wishes he’d been raised like.

All of the time he spends studying and working kind of prevents him from getting onto the dating scene, but it can’t stop him from looking or fucking.

The problem is that Bucky can’t tell if Steve’s 100% pure heterosexual beefcake, or if he’s in the world’s most platonic romance with Sam Wilson, a guy studying psychology. Now, Bucky’s not unpopular, _per se_ , but he’s far too preoccupied to have established a good niche in the college community. Since most of the students live on campus, they have plenty of opportunities to bond with each other; Bucky had gotten a small studio apartment on the edge of the city, nicely fitting between the college and the restaurant.

Sam Wilson is cool, and Bucky isn’t going to disrespect their relationship (if he was rejected by Steve, regardless of the guy’s relationship status, he would respect that too—for Christ’s sake, he’s not an animal), but man what he would do to get in Captain Rogers’ pants.

That’s not even the worst of it, either: the guy’s _nice_. Genuinely a kind soul, helping old ladies cross streets just for kicks, donating his midterm and final paintings to art exhibitions for charities when he’s probably got no money of his own (he’s a college student, for crying out loud).

Bucky could be an archangel and still not deserve to be graced with the dude’s presence, probably.

So Bucky may or may not spend his free (in the loosest sense of the term) evenings writing soliloquys about the curvature of Steve’s marble jaw, but that doesn’t mean he’ll ever speak up about it. He doesn’t have the time or the confidence to bother a Greek god. 

He wants to get to know Steve. And, honestly, Steve’s friends as well. They all seem really nice. Aside from Sam, there are a collection of people that he can be seen with at any given time—that rich asshole Tony Stark, the scholarship genius Bruce Banner, a redhead named Natasha (Bucky knows her from somewhere, thinks maybe they’d visited campus the same day or some other thing he can’t place), and on the fringe there are a few others like Maria and Sharon, both TAs.

The closest Bucky gets to the group at first is befriending Natasha’s not-boyfriend, Clint Barton. He’s a riot, and Bucky’s drawn to his nice-guy charisma. He doesn’t mention to Clint that he’s interested in Steve, but after a few weeks of coffee between classes and late nights cramming together, the other man’s figured it out.

“So, Rogers, huh?” Barton teases, lifting his sunglasses to eye Bucky, who scowls back.

“Shut up,” he mutters, but his tone is lacking venom. Barton’s a good guy, even if his not-girlfriend is probably the head of the Russian Mafia or something (yes, she’s _that_ scary).

Clint’s expression turns serious. “He’s single, you know.”

Bucky seriously almost chokes on his definitely-not-spiked lemonade at his friend’s bluntness and shakes his head as he coughs. “Christ,” he huffs after he’s caught his breath. “I’m not going to jump America’s Sweetheart, Clint. We’ve talked, like, three times.”

“Yeah, well, I’m pretty confident a guy like you knows how to flirt. Chat him up, get to know him, take him for a burger.” The blond shrugs and grins. “You two would be cute. Nat would be thrilled. She wants me to invite you to our movie night, by the way.”

“As in, your movie night with her? Just the two of you?” he squeaks, because _hell_ no, he’s not third wheeling on Natasha and Clint’s not-date. _Hell_ no.

“No, moron, Nat’s having a movie night at her place next Saturday. I think it's just her trying to set you and Steve up, but Sam's gonna be there and you'll love him so even if you don't get in Mr. Star Spangle's pants, you'll make _friends_!”

Bucky really doubts it’s a good idea, and he could use the money that would come with taking an extra Saturday shift at the restaurant… Fuck it. He has no sense of preservation, and Steve will be there at any rate.

“Fine.”

“Wow, don’t get too excited,” Clint answers sarcastically. Bucky whacks his shoulder and rolls his eyes in response.

The rest of the week flies by in a blur of near-sleep experiences in class, late night shifts serving tempura and sake, and merciless teasing from Barton about the star spangled model who goes by Steve—then suddenly it’s Saturday. Bucky doesn’t even realize it until he’s halfway through his morning shower, and then he spends an extra five minutes under the hot spray regretting having woken up at all.

He spends the day writing and cleaning, having realized that his apartment had managed to deteriorate into a pigsty within the span of a week.

Clint texts him a little after noon with the offer to pick him up, and he agrees. He makes himself ramen for lunch and lazes around for the rest of the afternoon.

Clint texts once again around six, demanding that Bucky get his ass downstairs.

Reluctantly, he obeys. He prays that wearing his usual outfit of black jeans and a t-shirt isn’t too taboo for this whatever-it-is.

Not a double date, anyways. Oh god, especially not if Sam’s there.

(He is.)

Actually, it’s Sam who moves over on the couch and makes space for Bucky, offering a nod and a friendly smile. “Barnes,” he greets pleasantly, offering a beer he’s procured from the cooler at his feet (which, what the hell even is this party? The fridge is _one_ room over). Bucky takes it gratefully and drops down into place beside Sam, right in the middle of the couch. He tries very hard not to think about the fact that he’s now sandwiched between Sam and Steve which, _whoa_ , awkward.

Clint’s still smiling like a maniac at the three men from where he’s standing in the doorway, when Natasha comes out of the kitchen looking as hot and vaguely murderous as always.

“Come on, dumbass. There’s a special spot on the floor for you.” She points to the floor space in front of an ugly blue recliner and Clint ducks his head sheepishly.

“Yes, ma’am,” he says cheekily as he moves to sit there. She kicks his heel as he goes, following him and then settling like a cat on the chair. It reminds Bucky of a queen with a lion at her feet or something. A very tame, goofy lion.

Steve nudges Bucky and smiles. “I’m sorry my friends are idiots,” he whispers.

“They all seem to be domesticated idiots, so I don’t mind,” Bucky assures him with a soft laugh.

Sam squawks in protest. “I resent that!”

Natasha smirks at them all. “Sorry boys, but _you’re_ the idiots here; not me.”

Bucky doesn’t dare argue.

They get through the first volume of Kill Bill before Clint suggests they play a drinking game. Obviously, nobody protests (Bucky surprises himself by not doing so, but hey, he’s not working tomorrow so what the hell).

Natasha insists on “Never Have I Ever.”

“It’s because she’ll drink for each one, and she still won’t get hammered,” Clint stage-whispers to everyone. Sam nods solemnly and Steve snorts.

They all move to sit in a circle on the floor, and Natasha gets a bottle of vodka. They forgo cups completely, and they make Bucky start ‘cause he’s the newbie.

“Uh,” he says.

Sam claps him on the shoulder. “Great start.”

Bucky shoves him back and tries to think. “Never have I ever… sucked a dick?”

Natasha, Clint, and Steve all drink. Bucky almost passes out.

Sam’s next. “Stole mine, asshole,” he snipes (but he’s smiling). “Never have I ever fucked a dude.” He’s the only one who doesn’t get a swig from the bottle.

Needless to say, they’re all smashed by midnight.

“Never’ve I ever…” Clint slurs, swaying slightly and bumping shoulders with a bemused Natasha. “Fuck. Mmm, never cried over a boy,” he giggles. Bucky reluctantly goes for the bottle, but his fingers graze someone else’s and he looks up to see that Steve’s already grabbed the neck of it. His face is flushed sheepishly. Bucky lets go, praying that he’s not completely red in the face. His heart is pounding.

“Was it Steve?” Clint pokes Bucky, who immediately retaliates with a shove. Steve raises his eyebrows and why the _fuck_ is it legal to be that _cute_? What the fuck.

“I don’t wanna make a pretty guy cry!” he protests, frowning at Clint and then looking to Bucky with an expression almost like—what is that, guilt?

“Pretty? Me?” Bucky asks, squinting at Steve.

Now they’re both blushing, Sam’s mimicking gagging, Clint’s laughing his ass off, and Natasha’s got her phone out—holy fuck, is she filming this?

“ _Kiss,_ ” Clint chants.

“In it for the voyeurism, you fucker,” Natasha smacks his thigh and he makes a wounded expression before directing his attention back to the awkward stare down between Steve and Bucky.

“Peer pressure’s wrong,” Steve protests weakly, but he’s looking at Bucky with those eyes and his eyebrows are doing a _thing_ and he looks hopeful and—

(It tastes like vodka and freedom.)

“You’re a work of art,” Steve mumbles after it, quiet and with the words bleeding into each other drunkenly.

“You’re both gross,” Sam answers. “Dibs on the couch.”

Natasha drags Clint up so they can disappear to the bedroom, and points to the recliner. “Duel for it,” she tells Bucky and Steve before leading Clint out of the room.

“We’ll both fit,” Steve says seriously. There’s a moment of Bucky staring blankly at him before he breaks into a grin. “C’mon,” he stands unsteadily, then offers his hand. Bucky takes it and is hauled to his feet by the beautiful blond.

“Recliner,” Steve gestures. They wedge themselves onto the lumpy chair together until Bucky’s pretty much in Steve’s lap; he can feel the guy’s warm breath against his neck, and it’s nice and so surreal.

“Gonna be so hungover tomorrow,” he answers finally. They grin impishly at each other.

He wakes up with Steve nowhere to be seen, and is a little (fine, maybe a lot, shut up) disappointed.

He’s less disappointed when he sees a phone number written in Sharpie on his forearm.

(Along with the familiar chicken-scratch from Clint dictating “next sat. at sam’s ask steve for details.”)

Sam’s still on the couch snoring when he leaves (and he really doesn’t need to know what Clint and Natasha might be up to, knowing that Clint’s awake).

 


End file.
